Glory and Gore
by Magery
Summary: Jane ignored the brute's silent corpse as it thudded to the ground, routine movements shoving another thermal clip back into her shotgun as she looked around for her next target. Garrus was out there, somewhere, blue life-blood probably feeding the every-thirsty soil, and she would rip the very stars from heaven before she let him breathe his last.


"Listen up, you son of a bitch. I am Jane _fucking_ Shepard, and you are **in**. **My.** **_WAY_****!**"

The world crackled around her, dark energy flooding through her veins, heady and pulsing – a drug, an addiction beyond any other. It hummed with menace, barely-restrained power drawing her taught like a bowstring, held back only by a fading control, a pebble trembling on the edge of an avalanche.

And then she let go.

The world _screamed_ around her, reality warping as she Charged, tearing through it like a knife ripping through an unprotected throat. She slammed into the brute with all the force of a passing comet, but the impact didn't even rock the monstrous fusion of flesh and steel; it simply roared, howling ancient, ageless fury to the merciless void above.

Jane didn't even blink, hands oiling through motions worn smooth by practice. Up came her Wraith and back went the trigger, once, twice, her hands shaking with the recoil as she emptied dagger-like shards of tungsten deep into the monster's chest - this time, it threw its head back in a howling scream of pain that twisted something deep inside her, a primal sense of fear telling her to _run_, to get away from something greater than herself.

She shunted it all to one side, thrusting the pulse-spiking panic away even as the brute's massive claw rent through the air to break bone and pulverise flesh. She let it hit her, taking the blow on her barrier; the sheer force _shattered_ it like so many shards of useless glass and sent her skidding almost drunkenly through the bloodstained dirt, but that didn't matter in the slightest as she Charged again, slicing a hole through the universe, fist cocked back and dark energy crackling at her fingertips.

She crashed into the brute again like a missile, or a shooting star, adrenaline pulsing through her veins and lending her an impossible strength as her fist burst through its chest, armoured flesh already weakened by successive shotgun blasts pulping like wet cardboard; what was hardened bone and six inches of armour plating against a punch born of sheer, stomach-clenching desperation and white-knuckled rage?

Her digits clenched around something inside and she _tore_; in her hand a great, beating mass stuttered once, twice, three times before falling forever still, the razor-sharp blades of her gauntlet's fingers still embedded in the monster's heart as black ichor dripped to the hungry ground, swallowed by the ever-present dust.

Jane ignored the brute's silent corpse as it thudded to the ground, routine movements shoving another thermal clip back into her shotgun as she looked around for her next target. Garrus was out there, somewhere, blue life-blood probably feeding the every-thirsty soil, and she would rip the very stars from heaven before she let him breathe his last.

She knew not where her brother was, only that the rush to the beam she could see in the distance had apparently failed, though she doubted even Harbinger's molten wrath could end Jonathon Shepard. But Garrus was not Shepard—the Archangel was not Sammael—and for all his might, he was not quite yet immortal like his Commander seemed to be. She knew she should be heading toward the Citadel, but for all their similarities, her emotions ran fire to her brother's ice, cool rationality replaced by incandescent fury the moment the world threatened something that was _hers_.

And so she hunted, carving a vast, bloody swathe through an inexhaustible army like a farmer scything wheat, the Normandy circling above the battlefield ready to extract them the moment he was found. _If he was found_, a corner of her mind whispered, but she wrenched the morbidity away, slicing the probing tendrils of despair apart with the razorblade focus of her rage before they could anchor in her psyche.

Jane scanned the battlefield, breath catching as she spied something in the distance, reflecting the occasional flash of light as a nearby Reaper rained down crimson fury from the heavens above. It was close to an upturned APC, and as she sprinted toward it, her thighs burning with a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion, it resolved itself to a blue hardsuit and an unmoving body.

For a moment, she froze, her heart in her throat and his name on her lips, an exclamation choked back unfinished by horror when she drew closer and couldn't tell if he was breathing.

And then she heard the scream.

It was a thing of nightmare, of the shadows in dark corners and the silence in a too-empty room; her pulse skittered and she shivered involuntarily, her body betraying the fear her mind refused to feel. She turned, slowly, the banshee behind her—twenty metres away but far, far too close—straightening to its full height, claws flexing as if she was already in its grasp.

"_Fuck_," Jane swore, as it started charging toward her, flickering in and out of reality in a series of blurringly-fast jumps. She backed up slightly and moved to the left, pacing out a semicircle to lure it away from Garrus' barely-breathing body. Her fingers flexed on the trigger of her Wraith as the monster approached, breath coming in short, sharp gasps, though she refused to wonder whether that was from exhaustion or fear.

The moment it appeared directly before her, she was already twisting away, disincarnating in a flurry of azure and purple sparks as its claws swiped viciously through the empty air she had once occupied. The banshee spun toward where she re-appeared, horrific visage twisting into a frustrated snarl, and she opened fire, shotgun shuddering in her hands as she depressed the trigger twice, tungsten shards ripping into barrier; it flickered but held, much as she expected it to.

It stalked toward her as she backed away, the battle-song high and humming under her skin, resonating with the deep bass _thrum_ of a Reaper opening fire and the snare-like chatter of distant firefights. Jane breathed in halfway and held it, the fingers of her right hand uncurling off her Wraith, then coiled and unleashed in one smooth movement as she exhaled, channelling the dark energy in her barrier through her gauntlet into a tight, searing beam as she thrust her free arm forward, palm open.

It lanced into the banshee's own protective field like a ray of burning sunlight, once, twice, three times as she channelled again and again, but the monster's barrier still did not fall. It walked forward in eerie silence, skeletal arms moving almost gently as it caressed its own power into being; the orb of biotic power homed in on her, speed halfway between stately and deceptive. It almost _shuddered _through the air toward her, looking for all the world like the heart of a frozen star – as it drew closer, she could almost feel reality warp around it, twisting and coiling in futile protest against the unholy intrusion.

For a moment, she stood stock-still, exhaustion crashing down upon her all at once, but at the last second she dived to one side, a short-range teleport barely giving her the distance to escape as the ball imploded only a metre or two away; the shockwave rippled against her barrier, draining it, but not quite enough to lose the protection completely. Jane straightened from her half-crouch almost gingerly as the banshee screamed; she barely had time to blink before it was charging toward her again, this time too close for her to do anything but throw herself into another gut-wrenching dodge as she vanished and re-appeared once more.

She hadn't been ready for it, and her body made that known when she landed; she stumbled, head ringing and eyes watering as she almost dry-heaved – a biotic blink was taxing at the best of times, but to perform so many in succession after fighting from dawn to dusk was well beyond the capabilities of lesser warriors, and barely within hers. She straightened, slowly, blinking away tears as she felt rather than saw the biotic implosion that signalled the banshee's final jump, and knew it was right in front of her, poised to kill.

So she did the only thing she could. She Charged, thrusting herself blindly forward in an attempt to stagger the monster – she'd seen too many soldiers impaled by a banshee at close range, plucked up like children and slaughtered like animals, to ever want one anywhere near her when she wasn't ready for it.

She crashed into its barrier, dark energy detonating dark energy as the protective field shuddered, almost—but not quite—collapsing, and for a moment Jane thought herself safe when she dropped back to earth, feet planting firmly on the ground as she landed. Then something _slammed_ into her, her barrier fracturing into a thousand flickering-fading-dying shards of energy, like she'd been struck by a charging krogan; she sailed backward through the air, shotgun flying out of her hands and skittering across the dusty ground toward where Garrus lay prone.

Jane hit the ground and rolled, if more by accident than any sense of control as she felt parts of her body _crunch_ with the impact, coming to her feet only to collapse to one knee as her left ankle buckled beneath her. _Shit! Shit shit shit!_ She couldn't Charge reliably without being sure of her landing, and with what felt like a broken ankle, she could barely _stand_. She couldn't heal it with medi-gel, long hours of battle having exhausted her supply before midday and only superlative luck having kept her uninjured since. Until now, that was.

The banshee approached, looming closer and closer with every half-gasped breath as Jane thought furiously, trying to figure a way out of the situation that didn't involve a shattered ribcage and a final, burning pain before it snapped her spine forever. If there was one. She had no gun, she couldn't Charge—or at least not Charge and hope to survive the aftermath—and even though her barrier was slowly reforming, she didn't have the power or the time to burn a hole through the monster's chest.

If only she had Garrus to… _Garrus!_ In the vicious heat of combat, she'd forgotten entirely why she'd come here in the first place. It had been her job—her self-appointed task—to find him, call in the Normandy for extraction, and keep him alive until help arrived. That was all that mattered. Anything else, even her own survival, was secondary.

Raising a hand to her ear, even as the banshee's arms moved with ponderous certainty to hurl another frozen star-shard directly at her, Jane radioed the Normandy.

"Normandy, do you copy? This is Sekhmet; I've found Garrus."

"Where are you? How is he?" Joker's voice shot back, ignoring protocol in favour of pure speed.

"Tell Chakwas and Lawson to be ready. EDI can lock on to my position. Goodbye, Joker."

The dread orb was almost upon her, and she scrambled to one side to avoid it, half-diving, half-falling in her haste and injury; it detonated next to her, this time close enough to drop her barrier completely. She stumbled with the force, almost collapsing as she put weight on her broken ankle once again, face twisting into a snarl of agonized rage as she stared up at the banshee.

And then she _Charged_.

The air did not whistle around her, for she was moving through a corridor of darkness, separate from space and time; all that mattered was her final destination as she _hurled_ herself into the banshee's chest, staggering it with sheer, bloody-minded desperation as she shattered its barrier on impact. Back went her hand, once, twice, channelling the vortex of dark energy reformed around her by her Charge into searing spears of starlight.

The banshee screamed again, this time in pain as she burned a hole through its stomach, pouring everything she had into a last-ditch attempt to kill it or die trying. She drew back for the third strike, but as she thrust her palm forward, biotic power _exploded_ around her, hurling her back through the air like a leaf in a hurricane. She crashed back to earth, skidding through ash and dust, and when she tried to breathe again, for a single, horrifying moment, she couldn't.

In the next few seconds, she was too busy trying to pant air back into her lungs to wonder whether that was because she was winded or because at least one of her ribs was shattered – she could feel it every time her stomach contracted, shards of bone already buried into fragile organs pushed deeper with every choking gasp. She coughed, spitting up blood and precious air, and lifted her helmet to try and see the banshee; the simple movement made her head pound like she was recovering from a ryncol hangover, and her eyes shut involuntarily before she forced them open.

In the bleary distance, she could see something tall and moving ever-closer, but didn't even have the energy left to feel despair, only a deep, soul-jarring weariness as she tried to struggle to her feet but collapsed before she'd even braced herself on her elbows. The figure drew nearer as a terrifying howl split the air, but Jane simply sighed. _So this is what dying feels like. Funny. I thought it'd be more exciting._

She chuckled once, briefly, knives of pain driving agonizingly deep in her chest – here she was, about to end forever, and all she could do was complain that it wasn't entertaining enough for her. She closed her eyes, too weary to even face her executioner head-on, a vague part of her mind acknowledging the slight crunch of earth as the banshee's footfalls sundered the desolate battlefield. She was about to shut that off as well, focusing what was left of her mind on memories of a happier time, when she heard an impossible sound.

_Cha-chink._

Her sluggish mind was only just wondering what someone was doing reloading her Wraith when the first shot _shattered_ the world around her like a thunderclap, the second running straight on the heels of the first like a one-two boxer's punch, if any boxer in the world could match the sheer concussive force behind the blasts of her heavily-modified shotgun. She heard something thud into the ground, an unearthly scream like a dying civilisation, and then nothingness.

Some time later, a voice broke the silence, a two-tonal hum she knew—and heard—even in her dreams.

"Jane?" Garrus whispered from somewhere behind her, voice harsh and weaker it had ever been. "That you?"

"No," she gasped, half-delirious with joy and pain. "It's the fucking tooth fairy."

He laughed, two harsh barks, the last dying in a deep, heavy groan. "You _are_ dainty, aren't you?"

"Piss off, Vakarian."

She blacked out before he had a chance to respond.

* * *

When she awoke, it was in the Normandy's med-bay, Karin Chakwas' smiling face blocking out the harshly sterile lightning.

"Shepard, you're awake!"

"Garrus?" she forced out around her teeth, trying not to choke on the way her mouth tasted like ash and agony.

"He's fine; better off than you were, actually. A patchwork of light burns from catching the side of Harbinger's blast and a minor head injury from where he was thrown into the APC and knocked unconscious, but nothing major."

This time, Jane blacked out with a smile on her face.

* * *

The second time she returned to consciousness, it took half a minute of rapid blinking before the glare dissipated enough to let her see; gingerly, she rolled her head from side to side, seeing Miranda Lawson talking with Chakwas in hushed tones in the corner of the room. Both women must have noticed her movement, because they moved to her side as one, the elder picking up a cup of water from where it lay on the side bench.

Jane tilted her head forward as best she could, ignoring the eerie numbness of the rest of her body—probably a result of the liberal use of medi-gel and painkillers—and almost suckled on the cup she was offered, her throat feeling like a Tuchankan desert and begging for liquid relief. Once she'd gulped it all down, Chakwas moved away, perhaps to refill the cup, but Lawson remained.

"Do you know anything about what happened to John?" she asked without preamble.

Jane coughed, and then spoke. "No. I was down there for Garrus; my brother can handle himself."

For a moment, the woman's mask broke, despair and rage mixing like blood and water, and she appeared to be biting back words – harsh words, at that. Jane sighed. Just because she was blunt doesn't mean she didn't care; he was her brother, after all, and she loved him every bit as much as she'd once hated him. Darkness tugged at the edge of her vision, but she forced her final words out before succumbing.

"You would have done… the same in my position, and you know it."

* * *

The third time, she did not so much awake as was awoken, a light pressure on her hand driving her from sleep to reality with surprising speed. It was gentle, familiar, and she squeezed back before she even recognized it for what it was.

"Jane!" Garrus exclaimed.

"Garrus!" she shot back, or tried to; her mouth was still too dry to fully wrap mockery around her words, and it came out a stilted mixture of relief and joy.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, subvocals humming with what she recognized as happiness and concern.

"Like shit," she replied matter-of-factly as she finally turned her head to face him. "Where were you—"

"When you first woke up?" he finished her question for her. "Chakwas kicked me out so she and Miranda could save your life; your ribs had punctured your lungs, and it took them twenty hours straight to fix the full extent of your injuries. You nearly _died_, Jane."

"Surely it wasn't that bad," she said, uncomfortable with the reminder of her own mortality. It was one thing to accept it on the battlefield, but another to hear it discussed after the fact.

Garrus' only response was to tighten his talons around her hand, almost but not quite hard enough to slice through her skin; from the way his mandibles moved, she knew he was biting back on a particularly angry response. For a moment, all was silent, and then he finally spoke, words hanging in the air with impossible weight.

"Do you know what it would have done to me, to live on knowing you were dead?"

"Of course I do," she hissed angrily, uncomfortable with the naked sincerity in his eyes. "The same thing it would do to me. Why do you think I was _down there_?"

He blinked, a gesture of surprise both turians and humans shared, and then his teeth spread into a wry smile she _knew_ he must have learned from John. He bent down, touching his forehead against her own, crushing the lank crimson of her fringe between them.

"Just don't do it again, okay?"

"As long as you never force me to," she replied, her eyes fluttering shut as the tension fled her body seemingly at the point of contact. When he spoke again, the resonant hum of his voice spread throughout her body, lulling her back to sleep.

"Don't ever change, Jane."

* * *

**Author's Note:**

This story does, in fact, belong in the same universe as _Mars__, __Sparring_, and _Belonging_. I have another story planned—eventually—that will introduce Jane Shepard all the way back in ME2 (as well as expand on her relationship with her older brother, the Jonathon Shepard featured in the aforementioned stories, which includes an explanation as to why she's a N7 Slayer Vanguard but doesn't use a sword); it just so happened that this one came along first.

Sekhmet and Sammael are the Shepard sibling's respective callsigns, for obvious reasons.


End file.
